Lights off!
by toughcandy
Summary: "Sherlock moved lightly, seemed to be playful, he was pulsating in rhythm with the music. On the stage he was free and alive, he was breathing. John's initial nervousness returned as a lightning. It forked through his body and made its exit at the fingers." During his university years Sherlock works as a stripper, and soon a new bartender arrives, called John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

There are songs recommended in the text for each concerned part for the story being more enjoyable.  
And a huge thanks for my beta, StormySkyLeaf!

... ... ...

Lights off!

#1.

[ Mo Cash! – Vegas Audio Ninja ]

Stepping onto the stage, Sherlock closed his eyes for a second to avoid being blinded by the sharp lights. With slow but confident movements, he walked toward the end of the stage and he let the collar shirt slip off his shoulders, as if it was just unintentional.

The mixture of sighs and screams, which was keyed even more now, surrounded him like the deepest fog, behind which the club seemed to collapse. No limits, no rules behind the invisible bars of the endless universe. Nothing left but the colorful, contourless spots.

He united even the smallest movements with the rhythm of the music; his hip was slewing and as his knees hit the floor with a soft thud, arms reached out to grab him.

No names, no faces, just fingers and wrists (bones of the hands; phalanges, articulations – all the same, no difference). Skin on skin, which was ticklish particularly around his hip. As he laughed, the pulsing crowd writhed again. He followed the urge – let the music take control over him – and he stretched on the ground in the most sensual way.

Sighs, screams, laughs.

Hands on his waist. Hands on the inner side of his thigh.

He grabbed one of them, led it down on his chest, his belly, even lower and lower, then he released it and gripped his own groin.

Sherlock slipped off the stage and cut his way across the tables.

There was a woman with brown hair, eyes sparkling with tipsiness. She waved some money with one hand. Sherlock grabbed it and laced their fingers together. Obediently, he swung a leg over hers, sliding onto her lap, and as she was waiting breathless for their lips to meet, Sherlock drew apart.

He closed his eyes again. He wished to be an outside viewer with insensible, cold stoicism, to be able to get out of his head and rule the chaos. His body was about to blast with adrenalin; it tightened and was on fire, his blood hammering in his ears mixing with the sound of the music.

He had opened his fly earlier, so the miss of the underwear could be seen easily, and as he stood up with his back to the audience, he pulled down the jeans a little, and women blustered all at once rapturously.

With a light, graceful movement, he stepped back onto the stage. A soft smile lingering on his face, he shifted his glance from a woman to another. He looked at them questioningly and pointed at his jeans.

Hands lifted up in the air, someone shouted; '_Take them off!'_

In the very second when Sherlock tore off the last garment from himself, the lights went out, and no one could see the bank notes, which were once pinned under the waist of the jeans, flying up into the air around him.

"I hate this shit" Sherlock sniffed as he was crossing the aisle to reach the changing rooms.

He tried to get rid of the Vaseline* on his belly using his shirt, but couldn't obtain the hoped result without having a shower.

He turned on the shower, but without waiting until it was at the right temperature he stepped inside.

He let the cold water flow and enjoyed that the sound of it locked out every other noise. The pounding rhythm didn't reach him here. There were no screams, no knocking of glasses, only the deep silence and the water, which washed off the burning marks of touches on his body.

With a towel tied around his waist, half wet, he stumbled out from the shower. Mirrors girdled him, enlightened with spot lamps. '_Ridiculous, just like in some theatre,'_ he thought. His pupils were wide; they looked as if they were black holes sitting in the eye sockets and they were watching him – nothing else but him. He saw himself in every dim reflection.

He slid a finger onto his wrist: quick pulse, dry mouth. Familiar symptoms, nothing abnormal, but he had to check himself, just like he did every single time when he took pills.

The Tiger slapped his back as he rushed into the changing-room, the others following him.

"End of the shift!" someone shouted. "Look at this!"

The man's – Anderson's (a.k.a Andy) – underwear was stuffed with money – some spilled out when he threw himself down on the beige leatherette couch.

Sherlock hated that couch. He always stuck to it. It was uncomfortable, ugly. Now he was watching Andy and trying to imagine how it felt as the sweaty skin pressed against the leatherette.

"Okay, boys" Jim was the last one who arrived. He wore black trousers, but nothing else. He didn't strip, not today. As a host, he barely had the chance for it, but when he did, he did his best and everyone went crazy about him. "You boys were awesome! Especially you," he pointed at the Tiger. "Be here at six tomorrow, got it? Otherwise the chief will chop your willies off, and you'll have nothing to sway on the stage."

The bar closed exactly at four o'clock at night.

The place became irrationally silent and empty, but Sherlock liked this fragile calmness the best, when the sweltering desire didn't pollute the air.

"Tiring day, wasn't it?" Molly put down the tray onto the counter, and took off the black apron.

"Indeed."

"Well, we had quite a lot of guests. Look, uhm, if you'd like… I could take you home… By car. You know, it's snowing, and I thought you might don't want to walk…"

Sherlock threw a questioning glance at the girl, who started to fold the apron shamefacedly, but it turned out to be a more difficult task than usual.

"Thank you, but I'd rather walk."

"Uhm, okay, of course! See you tomorrow, then!"

Molly left with a sheepish smile, though Sherlock couldn't enjoy the solitude for long. In the following minute, Lestrade showed up.

"Chief!" Sherlock stifled a yawn. "How's today incomings?"

"Bad as always. Though, maybe it's a bit better than last Friday."

Lestrade threw his small booklet onto the counter and leaned next to the younger one. Sherlock knew he had to ask – no, in fact he didn't _have_ to, because he could deduct everything from the tangled hair and the circles around the eyes, but they _expected_ him to ask it. Lestrade did.

"Carol?"

"She confessed she's got an affair." Lestrade turned his back to the counter. "She wants to divorce."

"It'd be better that way."

"Maybe."

"For sure. If you hadn't listened to your unnecessary sentimentality last time, you'd have got off her hands by now."

"Okay, you know what?" Lestrade rounded the counter and stepped behind it. He grabbed two glasses and a bottle of whisky and, after he filled them up, he gave one of them to Sherlock. "I won't let her to destroy my club." He sealed the confident statement with quaffing his drink. "It's not sentimentality but business. If we divorce she gets the half of the club, and she wants to sell it. There's already a purchaser, called Irene… someone."

"Adler." Sherlock twirled the glass with his fingers and watched how the lights broke on the tessellation markings. "She has two stripper bars, and she came here last week."

"I haven't met her."

"She just wanted to sum up the situation, but I spotted her. She was too excited, yet spent such a long time sitting right here. Too conspicuous. Even if she proved herself to be really generous."

"How much did you get?"

Sherlock eyed his drink for another second or two, then he decided to follow his boss's example and he drank it at once.

"Three hundred."

"Bitch."

~oOoOo~

"So, how is it going?"

"I went through every advertisement and I found nothing. I could get a job as a kitchen helper at some restaurant, but the payment is ridiculous. And my pen ran out."

John threw the pen onto the table and in the same movement, he shoved aside the newspaper as well – on which there were quickly marked, lined through advertisements. In the noise of the buffet at the university, he barely heard even his own thoughts, but now he felt happy about it – he feared that if he'd be alone with them, they'd destroy him.

"I should ask for some loan from Harry" he mumbled.

"Maybe I've found something for you." Mike Stamford grabbed his shoulder. "I've heard they need a helper at the Cashmere Club."

"Cashmere… I don't know that place."

"That's okay. My friend works there, maybe he can get you in."

"I would be very much obliged."

"Come with me."

John grabbed his stuff and, reciting a small prayer in his head, he followed Mike. They crossed the park to reach the other building of the university. John's cheeks were crisped red by the cold wind. He tried to cover his face with the scarf, but it was an abortive attempt. In the end, he gave up and only focused on the task: make the best impression on Mike's friend in order to get the job.

To be able to pay the bills, he was willing to accept almost anything – the lack of money raged over his head like huge stormy waves.

Bills, the charges of the uni, maintaining the costs of Harry's car that John borrowed, bills and bills, and to top it all, John even had to take care of other little nothings like food.

He needed a job acutely.

"How was yesterday's dinner with that biologist?" Mike asked when the front door closed and the snowing didn't assault them anymore. "What was her name again? Eva?"

"Sandra."

"Oh, right. So? Did you…?"

"What?" John frowned. "God, no! I'm not gonna shag her right on our first date! I'm not meeting her again, anyway."

"Why?"

"I don't know. We are just not a good match."

Mike rolled his eyes smiling, and after a five-minute walk they finally found the wanted person.

"There he is!"

John glanced towards the shown direction and tried to figure out who _"he"_ could be_._ They stopped next to a man lonely standing about – on his dark hair some snow could still be seen.

"Sherlock, this is John Watson."

Sherlock analyzed the shivering John narrowly and they shook hands. He even let himself show a soft smile.

"Sherlock Holmes." His fingers slid up on John's wrist, turned it to the side to be able to observe it more thoroughly. "You have no experience, but you'll get the hang of it soon. You don't smoke, it's an asset, but… you're not good with late nights. You've got stamina that comes in handy, though you haven't got the luxury to be queasy about jobs right now. Are you patient towards people? Ah, you are, obviously, since you're a medical student."

John switched his glance from Sherlock to Mike, frowning than – with a little force – he could manage to get his hand released.

"When did you two talk about me?" he asked dubiously.

"Never." Mike shook his head. "Sherlock's always like that. You can't keep a secret from him."

"Ah-ha. And uhm, what kind of job would it be?"

"Tomorrow night at 7:15, Cashmere Club. Get some shoes that are more comfortable."

"Wait!" John tried to hide the thin lace of surprise in his voice. "I don't even know what my duties will be! I haven't said with a word that I'm accepting it!"

"You will, if you need money. 7:15. Cashmere Club."

~oOoOo~

With a sharp contrast, the neon title was glittering in John's eyes as he stood on the street and starred at the building.

Male stripper bar.

The shiny words burned into the wall of his skull, continued flickering and he was about to turn and go home. He felt embarrassed from the received looks of the walkers – it was like every pair of eyes was watching nothing else but him.

Pleasuring warmness greeted him inside, a lovely sweet smell and pretty quiet background music. John had never been at such a place before; he couldn't even imagine what was waiting for him here. He grabbed a flyer at the cloakroom that propagated today's show.

**Cashmere Club**

Male dance revue

Cowboy night, in the heart of London

_15__th__ February_

Doors open: 7.30

Showtime: 8.30

"Come on" he whispered, and let out a ragged laugh as well.

He really started to fear the offered job, which was worsened by the image that popped up in John's mind; he saw himself in red underwear with a pair of boots and a cowboy hat.

"Hell no…"

Followed by the look of the cloakroom attendant, John shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to escape before it was noticed that he'd ever been here, but he didn't even move. He needed money. Very much. Desperately, he continued his way into the bar and he could do nothing else but hope that he could keep his clothes on.

"John? John Watson?"

He turned in the direction he heard the calling from – he was glad he couldn't see the stage from this direction –, and found a tall, crinkly haired woman.

"Yes, but how did you-…"

"Men don't really come here, I think it's not a surprise. Freak said you were comin'. You're late."

She tossed a black apron onto the counter and indicated with a hand for John to put it on. He hesitated for a while, but finally obeyed.

"I know, sorry, traffic jam. Freak?"

"Holmes. I thought you'd let him down and I would have to do all of the work again. Come on, what are you waiting for?"

The woman stepped out from behind the counter, but John was just looking at her, uncomprehending.

"Actually I don't know what kind of…"

"Saloon bar. Now."

Shelves filled with drinks towered over John tremendously, and suddenly he got unsure – again. Eventually, relief spread inside his chest when he realized that if he decided to take off his shirt, it would be by his own will and no one would have to pay for it.

"You're new." A woman smiled at him kindly. She appeared unexpectedly, John hadn't even noticed her until she spoke. "My name's Molly. Molly Hooper."

"John Watson, and yes, I'm new." He smiled back. "Very new. I've never been at… such a place before."

"Your nervousness is really visible. Take it easy. You only have to take care of the guests here, but during the show we serve the drinks. It's going to be a calm time for you. You can sum up the situation."

Two young girls joined them in the next moment, but John could manage it perfectly.

In fact, he didn't have any experience as a bartender and he needed Molly's help to find the rum, but thanks to his sister, he made the best Mojito in London.

"Not bad, newbie!" Molly laughed when the guests stepped away. "The recipes of the other cocktails are over there, see?"

"Thanks." John grabbed the little blue pocketbook to flip it through, but the handwritten texts were squiggles at the first glance. "Who is she?"

The crinkly haired woman took a bottle of champagne and some glasses and rushed away.

"Sally Donovan." Molly's soft smile turned into a grimace. "She is odious sometimes, don't bother. When we don't have a regular bartender she is in charge with the job, and lately…"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the salary was cut, so Carl quit, and Sally hates to stand behind the counter all night long."

"The salary was cut? Great…" John just shrugged as a response for Molly's questioning look.

"I'll go and inform the boss that you arrived."

"Wait. Is Sherlock here?"

"He always comes at 8 pm."

But Sherlock didn't show up. John didn't care about it, he didn't even know what to say to him – the job engaged his discursive thoughts. People – only women – about a quarter past 8, arrived in huge groups, and because of John's newness, serving was slower than usual.

Right at 8:30, the soft background music stopped and lights went out – only the stage remained enlightened. John filled up two glasses with some liqueur, then – as the women wandered away from the saloon bar and back to their tables – allowed himself to have some rest.

A man walked onto the stage in tight leather jeans and, in spite of the comfortable warmth of the room, he wore a fur neck coat which whirled around his legs at every step. Theatrical elegance surrounded him and his nude chest was shining in the sharp light. Arms wide opened, enjoying the burst of applause, he spoke in a silky voice.

"Aren't you cold, my ladies? It's a bit chilly in here, isn't it?" He hunched as if he was cold. "Shouldn't we warm up the place?"

The crowd rumbled. They raised their glasses one by one. Suddenly, John felt as if he were a perfect stranger there.

"Let's turn on the heat!" The man shouted. "Come on, ladies, louder! That's it! Get your purses, and reward our cowboys generously, they took a long road here only to please you. My ladies, here are the western stallions!"

The dazzle lamps blew out to let some tender blue light replace them. The fur coat guy – Big Jim – got lost, and six other appeared.

[ Save a horse, ride a cowboy – Big & Rich ]

The happy rhythm resounded in the club. It even swallowed the screams. The six cowboy trotted to the edge of the stage with their back to the public and John almost burst out laughing when they turned. Sherlock was on the right side, wearing a white cowboy hat, worn-out jeans and a leather waistcoat. A holster was attached to his belt.

But now he was different. His face changed on the stage. John was watching every movement of his twinkling. He moved lightly, too lightly when compared to a cowboy, but was nothing like that man whom John had met before at the university. Here, he seemed to be playful. He was pulsating in rhythm with the music. On the stage he was free and alive, he was breathing.

When they first met, Sherlock looked rather bored and breathless.

He pulled a woman closer with a lasso, picked her up and made a turnaround himself. He laid her down on the ground and squirmed between her legs.

He left his boots, his black underwear and his hat on, but nothing else.

John's initial nervousness had started to dissolve as time passed by, but now it returned as a lightning. It forked through his body and made its exit at the fingers.

By the middle of the show, he totally forgot about his duties. He gave silent thanks for the dim light, because as Sally poked his shoulder, his face turned red with embarrassment in less than a second.

"Three Daiquiris, a Grasshopper and two Cosmos, in case you stopped drooling."

~oOoOo~

After the show, Sherlock, with a pleasuring numb feeling, threw himself down on the hated couch to count his money. The air was heavy with the smell of alcohol and some perfume. He took deep breaths anyway to make his flushed body relax. His chest was burning: it lifted and sank quickly. He gasped as if he had been running for miles, in spite of his last number being pretty slow-paced.

The ecstasy pills pushed him on; they gave him a surge of adrenaline which needed reduction.

He threw away the belt that replaced his underwear and, after a quick shower, he put on his trousers, his hat and rushed back to the club.

John was standing behind the counter. They couldn't see each other because a bunch of guests stampeded the saloon bar, but Sherlock had seen how John had been watching him while dancing.

Lestrade flounced out from his office troubled, right when Sally closed the front door. It was barely passed 4 o'clock.

"I'd like you not to screw up the orders next time!" he grunted on the phone. "Yes, I know what time it is, but tomorrow's supply is going to be late because of you."

As he passed by Sherlock – who was sitting next to a table –, he beckoned Jim as well and, without putting the phone down, he started. "There's a work for Friday, a hen party and you two go. Jim, someone should take your role for that night here. Arrange it in time."

He gave them a sheet of paper and walked up to the counter where he poured a glass of whisky for himself and for a long time, he argued over the phone.

John cleaned up – earlier he had spilled out some drink onto the counter – and after that he was waiting.

He was waiting, because he didn't know what to do, or even if he wanted to do anything here ever again.

He wanted to talk with Sherlock. Thank him for this opportunity, but it wasn't a job suited for him. On top of it, he had made quite a lot mistake ("You were good" Molly soothed him), and he felt discommoded all night long among the half-naked – or sometimes fully naked – men.

"It doesn't suit me." He let out a deep sigh when Sherlock walked to the counter.

"What is?"

"This job. This place. Look, I'm grateful, I really am, but…"

"You want to escape?" Lestrade turned to face him, laughing. He put his mobile into his pocket. "Just when I'm about to hire you?"

John sighed again.

"I'm an awful bartender."

"Practice makes perfect. I need people, I need you. And according to what I've heard," He shot a quick yet telling glance to Sherlock, "you need this job as well. I'm willing to negotiate about your payment, but only on Friday. We're closed on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Good night, boys!"

Molly and John were the last to leave the Cashmere. The wind felt even colder after the sweaty warmness of the club, John pulled his scarf up to his ears.

"I hope," Molly started, "that you're staying."

"Honestly, I don't know yet. I don't fit in here."

"That's what I thought on my first day too. I still do sometimes… but you'll see what a great group it is, and you'll like it."

"Thank you for trying to convince me. Guess we'll see each other Friday."

John was relieved as he finally got into his car. He was driving slowly because it was snowing again and, moreover, there was a dull ache in his members; his arms protested against any work. But right now, this slow pace didn't bother him. He knew he wouldn't be able to get into his first lecture tomorrow morning anyway.

... ... ... ...

*Vaseline is used to make the skin shiny, and it makes the muscles of the body more visible as well.


	2. Chapter 2

A huge thanks for my beta, StormySkyLeaf!

... ... ...

Lights off!

#2.

Irene Adler's long black hair caressed her shoulders with its soft curls. The sharp lights were dancing on it as she crossed the club to reach the office room. Without knocking, she stepped in so silently Lestrade didn't even notice her at first. When he did, he stretched himself and tossed away the files that he had been reading.

Carol was sitting in front of him with her legs crossed, stolidly. Irene nodded to her, and a small, off-handed smile appeared on her face at the same time.

"Gregory you know, that this place is gripping, don't you?" Her melodious voice sounded toady. "It's easy to fall in love with."

"Just to break the ice, I'd like to pinpoint something, Ms. Adler." Lestrade leaned on his elbows, tried to fight the urge to pull her up for the informal style. "I'm not willing to sell the Cashmere. Not now, nor in the future."

Carol, with a light movement, took the hairpin out to loosen her hair.

"The half of the club is mine." She stated severely. "And I have every right to sell it."

"And the other half is _mine_." Lestrade laid the emphasis on the last word. "Yes, you have every right to do so, but since I'm a co-proprietor I enjoy high priority as a buyer."

"We all aware of you can't pay." Irene smiled.

"Because Carol asks for a gratuitously big amount of money." Lestrade turned toward his wife. "Would you reveal your purpose?"

"To get some money, of course. As an independent woman, I should take care of myself by my own."

Lestrade crossed his arms in front of his chest, he stared at his shoes.

"What's with your lover?"

"Don't you start again! Ms. Adler sure doesn't care about our private lives."

"Just like I don't care about her offer."

Lestrade stood up and left the room.

**~oOoOo~**

On Friday morning, John arrived late to his anatomy lecture. The alarm clock made a desperate shot to wake him up, but John thanked it with hitting it off the night-table. He didn't remember how and when he managed to get out from the bed in the end – he fell asleep around three o'clock in the morning, when he gave up the duel with the essay he had been writing.

Being startled out of sleep at 7:20, he knew that there was no point in rushing, he wouldn't make in time.

He missed the half of the lecture.

"Long night out?" Mike inquired, smiling, when they were heading out from the classroom.

"I had a passionate date with the biochemistry essay."

Mike laughed.

"I talked with Sherlock yesterday."

"Oh, God…"

"What is it?"

"Nothing, just… gosh, Mike!" John grabbed his friends arm to draw him aside, so they could keep out of the students' way. "You could have told me that it's a…" He lowered his voice, "a strip bar."

"You wouldn't even have gone there then."

"That's the point. Can you imagine how awkward I felt?"

"You'll get used to it, and you won't."

"Have you ever been there?"

"No, but it's not the point now. Listen. You needed a job, right?"

John nodded, leaning against the wall. He bit his lower lip.

"The place is not doing well lately, they say, and the payment was cut. I'm gonna talk with the owner tonight, so I'm not even hired yet."

"Then you have to change it!"

At 7 o'clock, John rushed into the club, frozen, with snow shining in his hair, bag hanging on his shoulder. He expected Lestrade to be there half an hour before opening, so he could speak with him, but he was disappointed; only a few people were hovering about.

Sally was sitting behind the saloon bar's counter reading a magazine, a guy (John didn't remember his name, but had seen him on the stage) was having an intense conversation with Jim, and Sherlock stepped out from the dressing room at the same time John arrived.

He greeted John with only a quick glance, then walked to the office and knocked on the door.

"Still not here." Repeated Sally in the same, bored voice she had previously used with John.

"When will he arrive?"

"I'm not his secretary, am I?"

The woman didn't look up even when Sherlock leaned closer to her as he passed by.

"Men's shampoo… Hmm, it fits you well." he stated.

"Excuse me?"

"I wonder whether Anderson's fiancée would like the smell of it or not. I mean on you."

"Listen well, freak! In case you're trying to imply at any-…"

"I'm not trying to imply, these are real facts. Andy arrived early, too early. You arrived a couple minutes later. It's snowing outside. Just take a look at John, he parked at the next street and while he walked here, he got soaking wet, but your coat was dry. You walked only a few meters, and counting on the facts that Andy lives across the street, and that you both smell of the same men's shampoo, there's a 97% chance you spent the whole day together."

On Sally's face the change of feelings could be read easily; surprise turned into shock at first, then into simple anger, which was acknowledged with a wide smile.

"And what's with the other 3%?" she asked silently.

"About the state of your knees, I'd say you scrubbed the floor. But I doubt that."

John was watching the little scene curiously, but Sherlock suddenly stepped next to him and gave him a severe look.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

"Good evening to you too."

"I thought you were not coming back."

"So did I, to be honest."

"Then? Why have you?"

"It's a great pleasure when a person is welcomed." John grunted. "And how did you know I've parked at the next street? Moreover, that I came by car?"

"It's obvious."

"Uh-huh."

Sherlock glanced at John again, then started on a monotonous voice.

"You're tired; books and a half-eaten sandwich are in your bag, so you came here right from the university, which is too far from here to go on foot. Subway or car, but I think it's rather the car. Your shoes are too clean; the nearest station is three streets away. You got wet along the way, so you had to walk a little but not so long, it's a car then. Not yours, can't afford it, a borrowed one, obviously, from a relative. Mummy, daddy, or sibling? It must a sibling, mummy and daddy would pay for the petrol as well. You could have parked next to the club, but you want to avoid even the chance that someone recognizes your number plate and figures out you're here. Except Mike Stamford, no one knows about your job, and you want to keep it a secret. Your bag is with you in spite of the fact that you could have left it in the car, which means you tried to have us believe that you came on foot, so that we wouldn't know you feel ashamed about being here."

Till the point Sherlock fell silent, John didn't even notice that his mouth was open the whole time.

"This is… terrific." he mumbled.

"Yes, I've heard that before, thank you."

"No, I mean, it _is_ terrific, but fantastic."

Sherlock frowned.

"Fantastic?"

"You kidding? This is… wow."

The Tiger (a square-shouldered man with uncombed brown hair, whose real name was covered with dark shadows) crossed the club sullenly. He waved to them loosely when he noticed them, and then he got lost behind the dressing room's door.

"Well, thank you." Sherlock's voice was laced with surprise.

"Hmm?" John tried to catch his look, but failed.

"People usually don't say such things."

"Why, what do they say?"

"Freak!" Sally called suddenly.

"Exactly."

John had a wide smile, and he said silently, _"not a big surprise, though"_, then he watched Sherlock walking up to the counter and taking some files from the woman.

As the time to open the place came close, he put on the black apron – he was wearing a white shirt with folded-up sleeves and jeans – then stepped behind the counter.

The Tiger came back sluggishly, and although he seemed to be angry, his voice was soft and friendly when he spoke.

"Which one?"

This simple question was beyond John's ability to answer – the two pieces of underwear which were waved right in front of his eyes were too deep in his private space.

Sherlock looked at them, uninterested, and said; _"the green one."_ but the Tiger wasn't ready to leave them, and John realized he also had to choose.

"Uhm… these are thongs."

"Congratulations" Sherlock sighed. "Great deduction."

"Green or orange?" Tiger nudged him, and brought the pieces of underwear closer.

"Okay, okay, green, just… get them away from me, please."

"Orange!" Jim showed up so suddenly next to them, John jumped in surprise. "You know quite well that I prefer orange."

"And you know quite well that I don't give a shit. I'm not gonna dance for you."

"Really? For whom, then?" Jim lifted up his head to look in the Tiger's eyes as he was a head shorter than him, faking offence in his voice.

"For whoever pays for it."

"I do pay for it all the time but… in a different way."

"This is my workplace, not your fuckin' bedroom. You should moderate yourself sometimes."

"Oh, look how grumpy you are."

John felt as his face slowly turned red, a pale recognition gained strength in his mind. He turned away with some excuse – which became gibberish mumbling because of his embarrassment – but no one cared.

He stepped on the other side of the counter, and for want of better, he started to put the bottles up to the shelves from boxes.

"So, why have you come back?" Sherlock sat down to a bar chair.

"I need money."

"You don't like this place."

"No."

"Neither the dancers."

"That's also correct."

"Why?"

Glasses settled scrupulously, napkins smoothed out. John was smiling uneasily. He straightened everything that he could grab, but Sherlock was waiting patiently for the answer.

"Do you really want to know?" John asked in the end. "Okay, look. I don't want you to get this the wrong way, but you preen yourselves like brummagem wares. That _guy _put _thongs _under my nose! And these women are…" He let out a nervous laugh. "Ridiculous. They pay a great amount of money for something they can't even get, and you sell yourselves to them. This is just… not okay."

Fuming, resentfulness or anger. John expected these reactions, but not that soft, tiny smile which was hiding in the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Are you… are you laughing at me?" he asked.

"I like your attitude. People usually don't speak out like this."

"Mike said that not a secret can be kept from you, and I start to believe that he was right."

"I saw how discommoded you are when you first stepped in."

John nodded. Sherlock said nothing more, but stood up and walked away.

They left the club together with Jim a few minutes later.

**~oOoOo~**

The door opened only after the third knock. From the tall, short haired woman's face, the smile got lost right the moment she saw the two policemen.

"Good evening! Ms McKenzie, right?" One of them asked, then he glanced through the file he had with him. "Stephanie McKenzie?"

"Uhm, no… I'll call her." She mumbled, and stepped back into the house.

Stephanie was shorter and chubby. She seemed to be afraid as well. They turned off the music and the place become silent at once.

"What can I do to help you, sir?" she asked politely.

"We have a notification about breaching the peace of the neighborhood."

Then the men, without waiting any response, got into the house. They found themselves in front of about twelve women's shocked faces who were staring at them as if they'd never seen policemen before. Stephanie took an unsure step forward.

"May I ask who…" she started, but a man silenced her.

"Step next to the wall!"

"Excuse me?"

"I said step next to the wall!"

"Why would I?" She shrugged.

The shorter officer grabbed her arms, tossed her against the wall without warning, nailing her hands with his own. As he leaned closer to her ears to whisper, he thrust his hip forward.

"This is insubordination, which deserves punishment."

The music blasted, Sherlock and Jim heated up one of Ms. McKenzie's last maiden nights in seconds.

They kept their hats on themselves, though.

Getting ready to leave, Sherlock was dwelling in the bathroom. Jim knocked on the door impatiently, and by the time he finally came out, Jim was gone. The bunch of celebrators hardly could give up on him, Sherlock was afraid he wouldn't make it alive to the car.

He was relieved when the front door closed behind him, the fresh snow rustling under his feet.

"Don't you dare to leave me alone with crazy women like these, next time!" He warned Jim, who was leaning against the car.

He had been on the phone, but hearing the noise of the approaching steps, he hung up.

"I told you to hurry. I have to stop by somewhere on the way back to the club."

**~oOoOo~**

The next two weeks brought no change, except that Irene Adler showed up more regularly, and John's presence became common. Lestrade was satisfied with him, and albeit John felt as if he was doing a horrible work, the boss insisted to hire him in the end. It was feared that if John decided to leave, Lestrade would rather chain him to the counter, than let him go.

They barely met with Sherlock at the university, but even if they accidentally did, they couldn't talk much. Once, John was rushing to his biochemistry lecture after bumping into him and his phone beeped.

Sit in the 4th row from the back, left side, and you'll get off. SH

The message contained nothing more. John stopped to turn around, but Sherlock had already left.

Why do you think Domville's gonna ask for repetition? JW

It's Wednesday's morning (hopelessly the middle of the week, before lunchtime), and yesterday he found out his daughter might be pregnant. You better not be noticed, or you'll have a hard time. I know you couldn't study for this lecture properly during the weekend because of the job. SH

Well it's… kind of you. Thanks. JW

4th row from the back, left side. SH

And messages like these multiplied during the next days. John's phone beeped at the most unexpected moments – although for him every single time was unexpected, since he didn't even know where Sherlock had gotten his number from.

**~oOoOo~**

Bored. SH

I'm trying to work, leave me alone. If you want to talk, come over here. JW

Can't. Have to be on the stage in five minutes. The 2nd number is mine. SH

Then keep yourself busy somehow. Like sorting the Tiger's thongs out? JW

You're moody. SH

Tired. And have no time to send messages, because I'M WORKING. JW

Just in case you mean flirting with a 40+ woman by that. SH

…

Oh, great, you turned rusty. SH

John glanced toward the changing room and spotted out Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall. With a dismissive movement of his hand, John gave a signal that the conversation was ended, then he brought his thoughts back behind the counter.

_'Lime, cranberry juice, vodka, and? And what? Oh, shit, Cointreau, or what the hell it is…'_

"Here you are! Two Cosmos, milady."

"Like a pro!"

"Pff!" John laughed, then putted the glasses onto the tray. "Take care of your words; the ceiling might crash down on our heads…"

Molly pushed herself away from the counter smiling and quickly vanished.

John's eyes were burning. Sometimes, he had to close them for long moments, but it wasn't a big help. The night shifts were already about to bear him down, his body gave distress signals which he compelled himself to ignore because he didn't want to loose the job.

.

_[ Bei Maejor – Lights down low ]  
_

The Tiger left the stage with his glasses on, wearing a thick belt, and suddenly the lights went out in the whole club. John raised his head. He entertained the thought that it must had been some kind of power failure, but as the place slowly filled up with some pale blue light and the music was brought out again, he leaned back against the counter. He watched Sherlock coming upfront with lazy but elegant steps.

_Lil' mama want her hair pulled,_  
_Legs pushed back._

The long fingers ran through the dark tufts of hair.

His jeans were worn-out, torn at some places. Fly opened, pitch-black underwear pulled off a little.

_So good, I see it in my dreams_  
_She wanna arch her back when I hit it_

Sherlock's hip was moving in a perfect union along with the music, as if it was controlling his muscles, the tightening of sinews and his tongue as it caressed his lower lip – and that tingling feeling which made John's body tense was terrifying.

Sherlock's chest – glistening with wetness – lifted and sank in a severe tempo. John's did faster second by second.

_Take it slow, put it down on me._  
_I said jump on it, ride like a pony._

An empty chair in the middle of the stage.

Sherlock stretched an arm and, without even looking at her, he grabbed the woman's hand – tall, blonde, barely passed twelve – and pulled her closer. Pushed her onto the chair and kneed on her thighs with one leg. He let her caress his body; chest, belly, groin.

The crowd rumbled as Sherlock sat into the woman's lap – supporting himself by grabbing the backrest, so he didn't lie too heavily on her. He slipped into a rhythm easily, as if he merged together with it. Hands on his chest. Sherlock's fingers were lingering around the woman's neck, in her hair, around the throat (so defenceless, he could do anything, _ g_ now), and John crinkled the napkin into a ball involuntarily.

Then he tossed it away, bemused. When he turned toward the newly arrived guest, he acknowledged with a surprised frown that it was a man. Waiting for his order seemed to be pointless; he leaned on the counter – carefully, so that he would not cause any accidentally spilled-out drink – and was watching the show so carefully. He was afraid he'd miss something important if he blinked.

Sherlock let the woman pull his underwear lower. Glancing back over his shoulder, he winked. And that was when he noticed the man.

Of course he did. Among the rapturous army of women, the grey suit was the most striking and dramatic aspect ever.

_She wanna get a kiss_  
_She ain't talkin' 'bout her lips._  
_Lil mama want somebody to take control._  
_She says I'm out cold._

Sherlock bent down and kissed the woman. She grabbed his neck to pull him even closer.

She tasted like cherry, but smelt like cigarette smoke and some cheap perfume.

Some women screamed, more stood up and prompted them.

The man with the grey suit sighed.

**~x~**

Sherlock wiped off the sweat from his forehead with the first rag he could get when he got back to the changing room. But he couldn't even step in. Jim obstructed the way and pointed a finger at him menacingly. He was shorter of at least a head and the scene seemed to be strange (and funny) because of that, but none of them laughed.

"Don't you dare to do anything like that again!" Jim sniffed. "Never again. Am I clear?"

"Why, didn't you like the show?" Sherlock looked at him with a severe cold calmness.

"No kissing. Rule no.1."

"See this?" Sherlock pulled out the money he tucked into his pocket. "The more slightly the show is, the more opportunity it has, the more generous the guest will be. It raises the ratio of attendance as well. If these women think they can get more than a simple illusion, they'll pay. Let them starve, wave a piece of meat, and watch them spring at it. Pure logic."

Jim nodded; slowly and tauntingly.

"Till you get herpes."

"It doesn't concern you at all."

"It does when I have to take you out from the show."

"It's worth the risk."

"In this manner, you could have fucked her right on the stage. They would have loved it as well."

"Oh, and what would I have for next week then?"

**~x~**

"Impressive, isn't it?" Irene Adler stroked the counter's varnished surface.

"Sorry?" John looked at her.

"The show. Sherlock."

"Oh, well, I think so. Hmm, he scored a great success."

"Yes, I've noticed that."

John's laugh sounded dry. The woman's look burned his skin.

"Excuse me?" He asked while putting his apron straight just to do something with his hands.

"You can't hide it from me, John."

"I'm sorry, but I didn't-… You'd like to imply that…? I-I'm, I'm not gay."

"No one ever said you were." Irene put on a telling smile, and then ordered some champagne.

Sherlock was wearing a purple shirt with black trousers when he showed up again. His hair was combed – not like before. His appearance was nothing like a few minutes earlier – his eyes weren't shining, the smile had vanished as if it had never existed. He threw his own skin away – or he had just put on a mask to hide himself.

John was watching him from the corner of his eye as he was approaching; he couldn't explain this existence called Sherlock, but till this moment, he hadn't even known he wanted to.

Irene caressed Sherlock's chest with a light movement as he passed by, paddled his chin and walked away.

Sherlock perched next to the man in the grey suit, leaning on the counter. He watched the blurred reflections of lights dancing on the surface.

"Thank you for the show" the grey-suit-man started after a few moments of silence, "but your plan to send me off was useless, brother."

"Oh, Mycroft, you are here as well?" Sherlock didn't deign to look at him. "You're mingling with the crowd so well I didn't notice you. What wind blows you here?"

"I wonder what mummy would say if she'd see you like this."

Sherlock, eyes wide, sighed.

"But she wouldn't. If you'd like, get some pamphlets on your way out and show them to her."

Mycroft turned, indicated with a movement of his hand that he wanted to order. John served two suspiciously young women, and stepped next to him.

"Scotch, please."

"So? The British government is on its holiday?" Sherlock was eyeing John while he made the drink. Their glances met, and in the end, it was John who broke the eye contact. "Or just a night out? Oh, really, do they know in your club that you come here? You could bring those old boys next time as well." Then Sherlock flashed an ear-to-ear smile at his brother.

"Now that we passed the formalities" Mycroft said, "we may come to the point. My well-informed sources said you're not attending Mrs. Ashford's lectures."

"She's dull and incorrect sometimes. I doubt you came here only to tell me this."

Mycroft spun the glass' contents with his fingers and put it back down.

"You're right." With a ceremonious movement, he pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket, folded it out and shook it in front of Sherlock. "I came to convince you to leave this place."

"You could have saved the travelling by calling me."

"I did call, you didn't answer."

"Oh!"

Mycroft's look seemed to be as uninterested as his brother's.

"I've told you before, you'll get full access to your account again as soon as you quit. You don't need this job."

Sally and Molly stepped next to the saloon bar together, and John put all of the orders onto their trays. By the time he finished, Sherlock and his brother were gone.

The sheet of paper Mycroft had brought – he had left it there - was a short article about the Cashmere. In fact, only a few words, and the main topic was Lestrade's divorce (_"the successful club owner's private life is in ruins", "the popular night club is about to close?"_). On the attached picture Sherlock could be seen as he stepped out from the Cashmere – although the photographer didn't care about his presence, probably, he just wanted to record the building coruscating in the morning sunlight.

.

_[ Gin Wigmore - Kill of the Night ]  
_

Jim had a soft smile as he stepped onto the stage. With acted shyness, he lowered his eyes as he heard the applause, than he waved to silence the crowd.

"My ladies, I'm afraid I've got bad news. The show is about its end, but as I can see, you're still on fire."

John grunted scornfully.

"We'd need a solution for this problem, wouldn't we?"

Jim looked around thoughtfully. Slowly, he loosened his belt.

The women in the club screamed all at once, Jim laughed. His fingers ran up along his belly to his neck, through his hair and back down. He was observing the reactions with undisguised enjoyment, and his movements were like whippings.

Sharp, severe whippings that wouldn't cause bloody scars.

John stood next to Sally, who was watching the dance without interest.

"What a jerk" she grunted.

"Stay here while I take this out, please!" John showed the garbage, and without waiting for any response he left.

Crossed the narrow aisle, went through the back door. He took a deep breath when he stepped out to the alley behind the club. He didn't want to go back in at all, but sneak to his car and drive away.

Somewhere nearby a loud argument started up, but it was the least John cared about. He turned to go back – while still fighting the urge to escape from here -, when suddenly the noise of tough punches' hit his ears and made him stop. He could hear it again and again and again, then a shaky moan along with the sound of a body hitting the floor.

John was waiting. In the end, as silent as he could, he stepped out from behind the container to see what was happening.

.

Jim was perched at the edge of the stage with his legs wide open, a playful smile on his face as he watched a woman softly caressing his groin. When he stood up again, he forced out some disappointed sighs.

He ruled them. Left the fanned flames behind to rage, he didn't even look back.

.

The young man, lying on the ground, was covered with blood. The lights barely enlightened his face and didn't make him recognizable, but John knew he wasn't from the club's crew. He had never seen him before.

The other man bent down, closer and grabbed him by the collars. Said something, but so silently that the glassy echo swallowed his words. He tossed him away.

The younger, leaning against the wall, tried to escape toward the end of the alley, stumbling. It was dubious whether he could reach it or not.

.

Jim just got off the stage when John sneaked back to the saloon bar.  
The Tiger stood next to the stairs, and when Jim walked to him he smirked – as the lights went out, being covered by shadows, Jim lifted up the Tiger's hands to his lips. John tried to ignore the thought that he might be kissing off the young boy's blood from his skin.


End file.
